


love, too, will ruin us

by segs



Category: Panic! at the Disco
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-01
Updated: 2015-06-01
Packaged: 2018-04-02 08:06:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4052692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/segs/pseuds/segs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>That’s the thing no one remembers about Icarus.</p><p>He falls from the sky, but at least he flies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	love, too, will ruin us

_tell me how all this, and love too, will ruin us._  
_these, our bodies, possessed by light._  
_tell me we'll never get used to it._

...

Brendon is drunk.

He clutches onto Ryan’s arm and sways like he can hear music no one else can, mumbles, “Sorry, sorry,” and laughs, bright and sudden. His cheeks are flushed red, his skin warm to the touch. “I know you hate it when I’m. You know.”

Ryan can feel the thrum of Brendon’s pulse beneath his skin from where his fingertips are pressed into Brendon’s wrist to keep him steady. “It’s okay.”

The tour bus has already started moving, and Ryan doesn’t even know where Brendon got the alcohol, but he can guess. It doesn’t matter. It’s just the prickling sensation at the nape of his neck, that’s all. The dreading feeling that something horrible will happen, like hospital rooms and the smell of dead flesh.

The bus hits a pothole and Brendon stumbles, carrying Ryan with him, onto the couch in the lounge. He’s still laughing. Up close, even in the dim light, his eyes shine like he has a million secrets left to tell.

“Hey,” he whispers drowsily.

“Hi.”

“We’ve made it,” Brendon says, out of nowhere, and Ryan doesn’t know what he’s talking about but he does, really. The tour bus. The fact that they’re out here and people want to hear them play. He doesn’t want his own hubris to get to him, so he tries not to dwell on it. Just keeps moving forward. Focuses on the present.

“Yeah,” Ryan says, and then he kisses Brendon on the corner of the mouth, softly so as not to disturb him. “You reek.”

“You love me,” Brendon says, as if he’s correcting him, but there’s no meaning behind it, no force. “We’re famous, Ryan Ross. We’re fucking rockstars.”

That’s the thing no one remembers about Icarus.

He falls from the sky, but at least he flies.

...

Brendon says that empty venues feel like what the world will be like when it ends, the human race shriveled up and gone, all that’s left being a handful of survivors. He likes to pretend they’re the last people on Earth when they sit on the edge of the stage, their feet dangling precariously high, then wandering the unfilled seats.

An empty venue. In a few hours time, the fans crowded outside the doors will spill in, and they’ll be able to watch as every seat finds an owner, every open space becomes filled. Nothing romantic about that.

Brendon starts to hum a song that isn’t theirs, a melody of his own maybe, something he can’t get out of his head and onto paper. He says, “We echo in here,” and his words bounce off the walls.

Ryan’s chest feels tight but he doesn’t want to give it away, all the weird and tense emotions that build up in his veins right before a show. The fear that it’ll all go away soon, everything. His youth, his popularity, his talent. His friends.

Nothing is permanent. He thought maybe he’d hate his dad forever, he thought maybe that he wished for his death all those years in and out of hospitals, but when his dad finally dies, Ryan cries. Ryan misses him. Nothing is constant.

Ryan stares at Brendon, who isn’t really looking at him, but rather at his shoes, a pair of beaten-up sneakers. He can afford better shoes now but he likes those and insists upon them, won’t let anyone throw them out. He’s humming, still humming, and the quiet sound of his voice vibrates off the walls.

Ryan is in love with him. It doesn’t really matter. Nothing is constant.

Brendon catches him staring, sends him a fluttery smile, and says, “Take a picture, asshole.”

“Fuck off.”

...

The lounge is dimly-lit with unnatural light spilling in from the cracked bathroom door, and Ryan watches Brendon through half-lidded eyes. He thinks maybe he spends most of his life doing that. Paying more attention to Brendon than anything else, like he’s a puzzle needing to be solved.

The truth is, Brendon wears his heart on his sleeve, remains an open book. Ryan just wants to know more. He wants a sequel to what he’s already read. Wants to know everything.

Brendon shifts next to him, lets out this small sound. He says, “I’m cold,” and presses his face into Ryan’s neck, turning his whole body so it fits snugly against Ryan’s.

Their heartbeats start to sync up. Ryan’s blood is rushing desperately to his heart, trying to regulate. He feels dizzy. Brendon’s breath by his ear, his skin brushing Ryan’s own, like this is simple and easy and normal. It isn’t any of those things.

“Hey, Ryan,” Brendon mumbles.

“Yeah?”

“I wanna...” Brendon lifts his head, dragging his lips up the side of Ryan’s neck and to his jaw. “I wanna like, kiss you.”

It’s not the first time. Ryan remembers slow kisses on Brendon’s lumpy spring mattress before they had even become a real band, quick kisses after shows, kisses that linger on the corner of lips. He savors those. They stopped however long ago, never said a word about it, like it was fine, and now Ryan kisses a girl every night and moves inside of her and doesn’t think about anything else. He promises he doesn’t.

Brendon has his hands on Ryan’s shoulders and he doesn’t feel guilty. They don’t have time for guilt anymore. “Just go with it, okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, okay,” Ryan breathes out, but Brendon is already kissing him before he can finish it, and his lips are soft and dry, his skin warm everywhere it presses against Ryan’s. He kisses slow, sweet, and Ryan loses track of time.

After seconds that stretch into minutes, Brendon exhales, whispers, “Fuck, I want to do this all the time,” and doesn’t give Ryan a chance to answer, just slides his tongue along his. His fingers move to clutch the strands of hair that bunch up at the back of Ryan’s neck and Ryan shivers, involuntarily, wishes he could frame this moment.

Jac is waiting for him back in the bunks, asleep and cold and waiting for him, waiting, but he never wants to leave this spot, never wants to stop kissing this boy.

They eventually part, Ryan’s lips red and sore, and Brendon’s eyes are too close, a brown so deep that Ryan can only see black. “God,” Ryan says, and yearns for less distance between them. “I missed this.”

“Shut up,” Brendon huffs, but now he’s smiling, smiling too wide to kiss him properly. “Me too.” It sounds like a confession. A secret.

Ryan wants to write this down, commit it all to memory, figure out how to describe the pauses in their speech, the pathos of it all, but he couldn’t get the words out. He only writes when he hurts. He wishes he could say anything he means but he can’t. They’ll have to come up with a new language for him to be able to say any of the words that float heavy in his brain, wanting to be heard, slamming against the walls of his skull like they’re begging to be free.

...

Ryan sinks his hands into the wet sand until they disappear, leans his head back so he can stare up at the sky. The light from the city makes the sky a dark gray, the stars swallowed up in the color, and he can’t find the moon anywhere. It makes him feel small. Like no one is watching.

Brendon falls onto the sand beside him, naked and unashamed, stretching until he lays on his back and stares up at the same sky. “I can’t see anything,” he admits, breathless.

Ryan isn’t looking at the sky anymore. “Me neither.”

“Come swimming with me,” Brendon says, and Ryan focuses on the drops of salt water in his hair, on his neck, his chest. “The water’s warm. It only has to be for a second.”

Ryan shakes his head, focuses on something further away. “It’s nearly midnight. There are sharks in that water.”

“Pussy,” Brendon says, but he grins. “Fine. I’ll just bother you instead.”

But he’s not a bother, and Ryan doesn’t even know if he’s aware of that. He sprawls out on his back, his wet hair clumping with sand, and Ryan watches the movement, feels small and sick and in love. He remembers telling Jac that he was touring too much, it wasn’t practical, it wasn’t like they loved each other anyways, but she still hits him because she’s Jac, and he still feels the sting of the lie. It took Brendon another month to do the same with Audrey, but they never talked about it. Not once.

“I want to kiss you,” Ryan says quietly, and Brendon lifts his head a little, looking surprised -- but how could he be? “If that’s okay.”

Brendon just nods, and Ryan is painfully aware of how naked he is. Ryan is in his boxer briefs, a thin layer of clothing between them, but Brendon’s chest presses against his and he loses his breath before he can manage to kiss him.

Inevitably, Brendon isn’t willing to wait, just surges up with his body until their lips collide. It’s hard and unrefined, messy with saliva and something desperate, but it’s the most perfect kiss Ryan’s ever had. It’s dark enough on the beach for no one else to be watching, and he forgets that there are others, lets the laughter and voices fade into static sound.

“Hey,” Brendon says when they part, his chest rising and falling rapidly, his cheeks tinted pink, “do you want to, um.”

Ryan nods fervently before he can figure out what he’s agreeing to, but he has a good guess. He closes the distance again and again, clutches onto Brendon’s wet hair, feels like he has been waiting for this his whole life.

The hotel sheets are better, and Brendon showers before, but then Ryan is inside him and he feels like falling apart. Brendon says, “I’ve wanted to do this for so long,” but he whispers it in between gasps like it’s a secret. Ryan wants to know all his secrets. Always has.

...

Brendon crawls into his bunk somewhere between Phoenix and Denver, lays there pressed against the wall among the plush toys and sheets, and every so often he rolls over and peers at Ryan from under a mess of hair. He always seems to be looking for something but he doesn’t ever find it.

“Soon you won’t even be able to get in here,” Brendon says, poking now at a teddy bear a fan handed him a few states ago, her hands shaking and her eyes shining.

Ryan doesn’t respond, just shrugs his shoulders noncommittally. He likes having them. Memories. Something to hold on to if it all were to end.

Brendon shifts closer in the limited space and Ryan can feel the warmth from his body, can feel every movement, the way his chest expands with his breath. Ryan always found his bunk to be too small, making him toss and turn all night and waking up with bruises, but Brendon fits here comfortably. He finds a way. “I’m tired,” he says.

“Go to sleep.”

“Okay,” Brendon mumbles, and he seems like he actually might take the advice, but then he’s shifted closer and burrowing further into Ryan’s chest, which is something they don’t do, never have, because they don’t talk about these things. Never have.

Ryan’s heartbeat stutters and pounds, and he fears Brendon may hear it. If he does, he gives no indication, just clutches onto the fabric of Ryan’s shirt, bunching it up in the back. “I want to stay here forever.” The words sound muffled.

“We can’t.” Not for any reason, particularly. That’s just what seems appropriate. Ryan lives his whole life in negatives.

Brendon doesn’t respond for a while. His breathing shifts, becomes slower and quieter, and Ryan thinks maybe he’s fallen asleep, but then Brendon mumbles teasingly, “Why do you keep all those teddy bears in here? Do you get lonely?”

He doesn’t really know why he feels defensive. “Just in case,” he says into the mess of Brendon’s hair, watching the individual strands fluff out when he speaks, “you know, something to have when this all’s over.”

He wants to say more, wants to explain himself, but he can’t. He’s scared all the time. Wonders if his dad was right, that this is fleeting, and he’ll never really amount to much of anything. It’s smoke and mirrors. His fifteen minutes. He’ll blink and he’ll be back home, like none of it ever happened.

Ryan wants to tell Brendon all of that, but he’s already asleep.

...

Brendon says, “I love you,” into the space between Ryan’s neck and shoulder, like he isn’t even aware that his mouth is moving. He’s soft and pliant, rolling with the dip of the hotel mattress when Ryan turns to face him, and he looks embarrassed, his eyes barely meeting Ryan’s.

The silence stretches on like Brendon is expecting something, anything at all, but Ryan doesn’t know what to say. It’s not like he didn’t know. It’s not like he couldn’t have guessed.

“Okay,” is all he says.

Brendon’s cheeks flush pink and his eyelashes flutter. He looks like he might cry. “Okay,” he echoes.

Ryan kisses him quickly, just so he doesn’t have to look at him. It takes a second for Brendon to react, but he does, his hands fumbling on Ryan’s shoulders, kissing back closed-mouth and desperate. He can’t say it back but it doesn’t mean anything. Brendon knows. He has to know.

Afterwards, Brendon doesn’t look him in the eye. They stare up at the ceiling together and Ryan counts away the seconds on the beat of Brendon’s heart. He counts himself to sleep.

...

It’s raining when Ryan wakes up. It’s always raining here. Another reason why Ryan never wants to leave. He likes the way the air smells after rain, the way all the dirt soaks through and everything smells bright and new.

Brendon stirs slightly but he doesn’t wake up. It’s too early for him. Ryan rolls over, watches him intently, watches the way his chest rises and falls slowly in rhythm to his breath. His eyes are closed, long lashes against his cheeks. He looks more beautiful before the daylight touches him.

Their days in this place are numbered but Ryan doesn’t want to think about it. Doesn’t want to talk about it. The sun has barely begun to rise over the buildings, leaving the whole world a pale blue-gray, and he can’t talk about it.

Brendon sleeps comfortably. Like a rock. Like he doesn’t worry about the future. Ryan knows he must, like anyone does, but he doesn’t show it. Doesn’t talk about it.

Ryan almost wants to wake him up but decides not to. He’ll let him sleep.

The words in his brain keep getting fumbled. He doesn’t know much about love or anything else, doesn’t know how to say what he means. Keltie asks him if he loves her. He says he does. It doesn’t feel like a lie. Brendon asks him if he feels guilty, in between gasps, sounding so dirty and beautiful, his skin hot and flushed. He says he doesn’t. He’s telling the truth.

The covers are warm but Ryan can’t stop shivering, so he sits up, rummages through his duffel bag full of clothes. He keeps hearing words in his head and he wants to get them down. Before they’re gone. Life is fleeting. Success is meaningless. Everything just happens all at once.

Brendon doesn’t have time for love, he says, but he looks at Ryan the way you might look at someone you love. It doesn’t matter, really. Neither here nor there.

Ryan looks over at him and feels short of breath.

She asks him if he loves her and he knows that he should so he says yes. The sun melts the wax from his wings.

Who has time for guilt?

...

Ryan is drunk.

He holds onto Brendon’s arm as the world shifts focus, and he’s unsteady on his feet, his body rippling in rhythm to something no one else can hear. His face is close to Brendon’s neck and he whispers, “Sorry.”

Brendon swallows soundly and Ryan can hear every movement. “It’s okay.”

The room is spinning around him and he feels he may get sick but he holds onto Brendon, feels solid ground underneath him. The smell of alcohol used to remind him of hospital sheets but people grow up. Time moves forward. He was stuck in the past. He likes this now, likes the feeling of weightlessness. Like he doesn’t have to feel anything at all.

Brendon pulls him towards the bed and lets him fall into the blankets. “Are you gonna be okay?”

Ryan nods feebly. “Totally.” The room is unsteady around him.

Brendon climbs into the bed, this carefully impenetrable expression on his face. Ryan presses close to him, feeling warm and comfortable, and if his whole life could condense into this moment he thinks he’ll be happy forever.

Brendon says, “Hey. Ryan.”

“Hmm.” His voice is muffled against Brendon’s collar.

“Do you.” Brendon’s voice stutters and stops, like he can’t get all the words out. He combs fingers through Ryan’s hair. “Do you think you’ll ever love me?”

Ryan looks up but Brendon keeps looking at the ceiling, his eyes flitting back and forth like he’s reading something there, tracing patterns in the textures.

There are words everywhere in his body and brain and he knows he should say them, get them out. He should. Brendon’s body is achingly close, and he can hear every stutter of his heartbeat, every breath that rattles shakily in his lungs.

No one asks Icarus if it was worth it. You can’t ask a dead man much of anything.

Ryan says, “No.”

Brendon keeps breathing. His heart doesn’t break. His body doesn’t fail. He’ll get over it. He’ll move on.

Ryan keeps falling.


End file.
